Madrigal for Charlie Muffin

7

Ostia has been the seaside for Rome since the days of the Caesars and the Billington villa occupied a site where a general serving under Claudius had lived. It was secluded from the other constructions along the coastline, the nearest neighbour at least a mile away. The highway looped along the red clay and granite cliffs, with a sheer drop into the sea on one side, and then turned sharply at a minor peak. And there, set out as if for admiration in the small valley below, was the mansion. It was built right against the cliff edge and, before the car began to descend, Charlie had a bird’s eye view of a verandah, colonnaded and heavy with grapevines and bourgainvillea overlooking the sea. There were walls on the remaining three sides and Charlie was able to make out the central courtyard around which the main house was arranged. It was almost all single-storey, with just one upper level; five bedrooms, according to the insurance information. There was a fountain, with a figure motif he couldn’t distinguish, directly in front of the gravel drive, and along its entire length there was a border of neatly barbered cypress trees. The gardens were tiered down to the perimeter fence, against which were regimented groves of olives and oranges and more wine grapes.

‘Posh,’ judged Charlie, as he slowed the car at the gate lodge. Charlie gave the name of Willoughby’s insurance firm and noted, for the report he had later to prepare, the care with which it was scrutinized against a visitors’ sheet by a uniformed security guard. As he was waved through he saw the telephone being lifted, to warn the main house.

Inside the grounds it was easier to see the cat’s cradle of electrical wiring topping the walls. There were electrical booster points at the corners and Charlie assessed the conduit weight powerful enough for a current that could kill. The cypresses were bigger than they had appeared from the approach road, shadowing the drive almost completely from the mid-morning sun. The protection ended just before the front of the house, and the sudden glare was disconcerting. Charlie squinted against the brightness, aware of a woman waiting for him. She came forward as he got out of the car, hand outstretched.

‘I’m Jane Williams,’ she said. ‘Secretary to Lady Billington.’

Charlie was conscious of her aloof scrutiny. It had been hotter that he’d expected on the drive from Rome and his suit was concertinaed. He pulled at the sleeves, trying to straighten them and dry his hands at the same time. She permitted the briefest contact.

‘Lady Billington asked me to look after you.’

Charlie grinned. ‘What does that mean?’

Her face remained blank. ‘It means I’ll conduct you through whatever sort of examination you wish to make of the security precautions of the house.’

Squire’s daughter, judged Charlie: twin-set, pearls and the hunt on Sunday. Except that because of the heat it was voile not cashmere and if she had to work for a living he didn’t expect the pearls were genuine. She probably still rode, though. She was slim and small-busted, with a full-lipped, heavy-browed face. Her dark hair was strained back into a businesslike bun at the nape of her neck and the tortoiseshell spectacles were held like a wand of office in her hand. A fashion magazine image of the perfect secretary, he thought.

‘Lady Billington suggests you join her for sherry later,’ said the girl.

‘All right.’ accepted Charlie. He noticed that the fountain motif had water coming out of a cherub’s nipples.

The secretary led the way into the villa through a side door. Charlie felt the chill of air conditioning and saw that the windows were tinted against the sun, in addition to the Venetian blinds. The floor was black and white marble, like a chessboard, and halfway down the corridor there was another fountain. This time the water was spurting from a fish’s mouth. There were recesses and alcoves with plinths and urns, and from them trailed tendrils of evergreen plants. She stopped at the beginning of the corridor that seemed to run the length of the house and said, ‘What exactly is it that you want?’

‘Reassurance, I suppose,’ said Charlie. ‘To know that the security is still good.’

‘Sir Hector is very security conscious,’ she said curtly.

‘So it would seem. Is that electric circuit on the wall operated every night?’

‘By a time switch,’ she confirmed. ‘It prevents human error, someone forgetting. There are floodlights, too, along the beach.’

‘What about the house?’

‘Why don’t you see for yourself?’

There were restraining fixtures on the majority of the ground-floor windows, preventing their being opened more than six inches. There were two sets of French windows, one at the side overlooking the seaview verandah and the other at the front of the house, leading out onto the wide driveway. On each were two sets of breaker points, to sound an alarm if contact was interrupted. In addition there were pressure pads beneath the carpeting. The same protection was installed at all the doors. There was the main entrance, the minor door through which they’d come into the house, one leading out through the kitchen and a fourth out onto the verandah, separate from the French window. Charlie followed behind the secretary from place to place, checking the details against the protection listed upon the file copy he had brought from London.

‘Are these manually activated?’ he asked, testing her.

‘Time switch again,’ she said.

‘But you can override it if you want to?’

‘Of course.’

‘Shall we see?’

‘Whatever for?’

‘To guarantee it works.’

‘Why?’

‘I would have thought that was obvious.’

‘We weren’t advised this would be necessary.’

‘I’ve only just decided it is. Bells that don’t ring aren’t an awful lot of good, are they?’

‘These work.’

‘Have you tested them?’

She moved her feet, uncomfortably. ‘No.’

‘So we’ll check, shall we?’

‘But people will have to be warned: one alarm sounds directly into the local police station.’

‘You’d better warn them, hadn’t you?’

‘Are you sure it’s necessary?’

‘Positive.’

She turned on her heel and flounced out, leaving him in what he supposed was a drawing room. Over the marble fire-place, the unspeakable in hunting pink pursued the unseen uneatable. The English scene seemed curiously out of place among the classical ornaments and carvings, which Charlie supposed were genuine. There was no sense that anyone ever visited the room except to dust. He ran his finger along the top of a side-table. They did that well enough. It was fifteen minutes before Jane Williams returned.

‘Are you ready?’ she said.

‘If you are.’

Her face was expressionless. ‘What do you want?’

‘Is the alarm set?’

‘Yes.’

‘The police warned?’

‘Yes. I told them we’d be testing for an hour and they were to ignore it during that time.’

Charlie went to the main entrance, first triggering the alarm by opening the door and then by stepping on the pressure pad. On both occasions, the alarm jangled piercingly. He repeated the process at every other entry point and at the French doors. The protection operated every time.

‘Good,’ he said.

‘I told you it worked.’

‘So you did.’

‘Can I put the system back to automatic now?’ There was a note of weariness in her voice.

‘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.

‘I said sherry,’ remembered Lady Billington. ‘But I prefer gin. What about you?’

‘Scotch please,’ said Charlie.

‘Shouldn’t do it, you know,’ she said.

‘Do what?’

‘Drink in this climate; the Romans always watered their wine, but then look what happened to them.’

Charlie liked her. Lady Billington was the Rolls Royce to Jane Williams’s Daimler, he decided, accepting the drink from the returning secretary. His nose was itching.

‘Cheers,’ said Lady Billington.

‘Cheers,’ said Charlie.

‘Must have been an awful nuisance for you, coming all the way from London.’

‘It was necessary for the valuation adjustment,’ said Charlie, hoping that was the way proper insurance men spoke.

‘Hector fusses so!’ she said. ‘Half the time people don’t know the difference between the real thing and paste.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not finished,’ said Jane Williams. ‘It seems you have to be personally present when the jewellery is checked.’

‘Whatever for!’

‘You’re the owner,’ said Charlie. ‘I can only accept proof of identity from you: it’s a term of the policy.’ He sneezed, just getting the handkerchief to his face in time.

‘Can’t do it today,’ said Lady Billington. ‘Due in Rome for lunch. Hector treats lateness as a diplomatic incident.’ She was sitting on a wide couch. The cats snuggled up beside her and she began to fondle them.

‘Your secretary explained,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m sorry. I should have explained on the telephone.’

‘No matter,’ said Lady Billington. She frowned at her empty glass and offered it to the other woman. ‘And look at the diary, will you?’

She came back to Charlie. ‘What have you done?’

‘Checked the security, which was the main point of the visit,’ said Charlie. ‘It seems extremely efficient.’

‘I heard the bells.’

Charlie realized she had a tendency to over-stress her sibilants and was unsure whether it was an impediment or the gin. ‘From what I’ve seen I should think you’re safe enough.’ He sneezed again.

‘Have you got a cold?’

Charlie looked towards the cats. ‘Bit asthmatic,’ he said. ‘Reaction to animal fur.’

Jane Williams returned with the drinks and the appointments diary. Lady Billington held up the animals. ‘Take them out dear, will you?’

Sighing, the secretary carried both animals out into the corridor. She returned picking fur from her skirt.

‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.

She said to Lady Billington. ‘You could fit it in tomorrow.’

Charlie thought she made it sound like agreeing to a hack being shod.

‘Come for sherry,’ invited Lady Billington, sipping her gin.

The cats were clustered at the door, awaiting readmission when he left. Jane Williams showed him out. At the drive, Charlie said, ‘See you tomorrow.’

‘I doubt it,’ she said, determined upon the last word.

Charlie sneezed, not managing the handkerchief in time.

Alexander Hotovy had stressed his wife’s health when he made the request and had been given permission to travel to London airport to meet her on her return from Czechoslovakia. He sat in the rear of the car, confident neither the driver nor the escort who accompanied him would discern the excitement that was throbbing through him. It wouldn’t be so easy with Lora: his wife knew him too well. He’d rehearsed the whispered warning for when they embraced, so she would not question him until they got somewhere secure to talk. Dear God, he prayed, let her be well enough to accept it without challenge. In a day – two at the most – they would all be safe.

The vehicle circled the roundabout and sped beneath the huge welcoming sign above the tunnel leading into the airport. Hotovy smiled at it briefly. That’s what he was being welcomed to: a new life. A new life without restrictions or suspicion or worrying about an indiscreet word or thought. Freedom! His hands were wet with sweat. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them under the pretence of blowing his nose.

Safeguarded by the CD plates, the car parked on the double yellow lines outside the European arrivals building and Hotovy got out. He walked with deliberate slowness into the terminal, staring up at the indicator board for the flight from Prague.

‘You are Comrade Hotovy?’

‘Yes,’ In his surprise, Hotovy answered before he realized that the question had been asked in Russian. There was a man either side of him and as he turned he saw three more close behind. ‘What do you want?’

‘Look there, please,’ said one of them politely.

About a hundred and fifty yards along the concourse Hotovy saw his two boys being led into the building. There were three men and a woman with them. They went to the desk handling the Aeroflot flight. Tickets and boarding passes were handed to them without any checking formalities.

‘You’re not going to make a fuss, are you?’ said the man.

‘No,’ said Hotovy.

It was two hours after the Aeroflot departure that Clarissa Willoughby arrived at Heathrow. With the porter trailing her she went straight by the check-in counter for the Nice flight to the ticket desk.

‘I’d like to change my flight,’ she said to the clerk.

The man in the grey suit, still with his umbrella, busied himself among the magazines at the bookstall. He found he read a lot in his line of business.