Night Over Water (8 page)

It was his love of jewelry that had made him a thief. As an adolescent he had loved to walk along the opulent shopping streets of the . West End and look in the windows of jewelers’ shops. He was enraptured by the diamonds and precious stones glinting on dark velvet pads under the bright display lights. He liked them for their beauty, but also because they symbolized a kind of life he had read about in books, a life of spacious country houses with broad green lawns, where pretty girls with names like Lady Penelope and Jessica Chumley played tennis all afternoon and came in panting for tea.

He had been apprenticed to a jeweler, but he had been bored and restless, and he left after six months. Mending broken watch straps and enlarging wedding rings for overweight wives had no glamour. But he had learned to tell a ruby from a red garnet, a natural pearl from a cultured one, and a modern brilliant-cut diamond from a nineteenth-century old mine cut. He had also discovered the difference between an appropriate setting and an ugly one, a graceful design and a tasteless piece of ostentation; and the ability to discriminate had further inflamed his lust for beautiful jewelry and his longing for the style of life that went with it.

He eventually found a way to satisfy both desires by making use of girls such as Rebecca Maugham-Flint.

He had met Rebecca at Ascot. He often picked up rich girls at race meetings. The open air and the crowds made it possible for him to hover between two groups of young racegoers in such a way that everyone thought he was part of the other group. Rebecca was a tall girl with a big nose, dreadfully dressed in a ruched jersey dress and a Robin Hood hat with a feather in it. None of the young men around her paid any attention to her, and she was pathetically grateful to Harry for talking to her.

He had not pursued the acquaintanceship right away, for it was best not to seem eager. But when he ran into her a month later, at an art gallery, she greeted him like an old friend and introduced him to her mother.

Girls such as Rebecca were not supposed to go unchaperoned to cinemas and restaurants with boys, of course; only shopgirls and factory workers did that. So they would pretend to their parents that they were going out in a crowd; and to make it look right, they would generally begin the evening at a cocktail party. Afterward they could go off discreetly in pairs. This suited Harry ideally: since he was not officially “courting” Rebecca, her parents saw no need to look closely into his background, and they never questioned the vague lies he told about a country house in Yorkshire, a minor public school in Scotland, an invalid mother living in the south of France and a prospective commission in the Royal Air Force.

Vague lies were common in upper-class society, he had found. They were told by young men who did not want to admit to being desperately poor, or having parents who were hopeless drunks, or coming from families that had disgraced themselves by scandal. No one troubled to pin a fellow down until he showed signs of a serious attachment to a well-bred girl.

In this indefinite way Harry had been going around with Rebecca for three weeks. She had got him invited to a weekend house party in Kent, where he had played cricket and stolen money from the hosts, who had been too embarrassed to report the theft for fear of offending their guests. She had also taken him to several balls, where he had picked pockets and emptied purses. In addition, when calling at her parents’ house he had taken small sums of money, some silver cutlery and three interesting Victorian brooches that her mother had not yet missed.

There was nothing immoral in what he did, in his opinion. The people from whom he stole did not deserve their wealth. Most of them had never done a day’s work in their lives. Those few who had to have some kind of job used their public-school connections to get overpaid sinecures: they were diplomats, chairmen of companies, judges or Conservative MPs. Stealing from them was like killing Nazis: a service to the public, not a crime.

He had been doing this for two years, and he knew it could not go on forever. The world of upper-class English society was large but limited, and eventually someone would find him out. The war had come at a time when he was ready to look for a different way of life.

However, he was not going to join the army as a regular soldier. Bad food, itchy clothes, bullying and military discipline were not for him, and he looked sickly in olive drab. Air force blue matched his eyes, however, and he could easily see himself as a pilot. So he was going to be an officer in the R.A.F He had not yet figured out how, but he would manage it: he was lucky that way.

In the meantime he decided to use Rebecca to get inside one more wealthy home before dropping her.

They began the evening at a reception in the Belgravia home of Sir Simon Monkford, a rich publisher.

Harry spent some time with the Honorable Lydia Moss, the overweight daughter of a Scottish earl. Awkward and lonely, she was just the kind of girl who was most vulnerable to his charm, and he enchanted her for twenty minutes more or less out of habit. Then he talked to Rebecca for a while, to keep her sweet. After that, he judged the time was right to make his move.

He excused himself and left the room. The party was going on in the large double drawing room on the second floor. As he crossed the landing and slipped up the stairs he felt the thrilling rush of adrenaline that always came to him when he was about to do a job. The knowledge that he was going to steal from his hosts, and risk being caught red-handed and shown up as a fraud, filled him with fear and excitement.

He reached the next floor and followed the corridor to the front of the house. The farthest door probably led to the master bedroom suite, he thought. He opened it and saw a large bedroom with flowered curtains and a pink bedspread. He was about to step inside when another door opened and a challenging voice called out: “I say!”

Harry turned around, his tension drawing tighter. He saw a man of about his own age step into the corridor and look curiously at him.

As always, the right words came to him when he needed them. “Ah, is it in there?” he said.

“What?”

“Is that the lav?”

The young man’s face cleared. “Oh, I see. You want the green door at the other end of the corridor.”

“Thanks awfully.”

“Not at all.”

Harry went along the corridor. “Lovely house,” he remarked.

“Isn’t it?” The man descended the staircase and disappeared.

Harry allowed himself a pleased grin. People could be so gullible.

He retraced his steps and went into the pink bedroom. As usual, there was a suite of rooms. The color scheme indicated that this was Lady Monkford’s room. A rapid survey revealed a small dressing room off to one side, also decorated in pink; an adjoining, smaller bedroom, with green leather chairs and striped wallpaper; and a gentleman’s dressing room off that. Upper-class couples often slept separately, Harry had learned. He had not yet decided whether that was because they were less randy than the working class, or because they felt obliged to make use of all the many rooms in their vast houses.

Sir Simon’s dressing room was furnished with a heavy mahogany wardrobe and matching chest. Harry opened the top drawer of the chest. There, inside a small leather jewel box, was an assortment of studs, collar stiffeners and cuff links, not neatly arranged but tumbled about haphazardly. Most of them were rather ordinary, but Harry’s discriminating eye lit on a charming pair of gold cuff links with small rubies inset. He put them in his pocket. Next to the jewel box was a soft leather wallet containing about fifty pounds in five-pound notes. Harry took twenty pounds and felt pleased with himself. Easy, he thought. It would take most people two months’ hard work in a dirty factory to earn twenty pounds.

He never stole everything. Taking just a few items created a doubt. People thought they might have mislaid the jewelry or made a mistake about how much was in the wallet, so they hesitated to report the theft.

He closed the drawer and moved into Lady Monkford’s bedroom. He was tempted to get out now with the useful haul he had already made, but he decided to risk a few minutes more. Women generally had better jewelry than their husbands. Lady Monkford might have sapphires. Harry loved sapphires.

It was a fine evening, and a window was open wide. Harry glanced through it and saw a small balcony with a wrought-iron balustrade. He went quickly into the dressing room and sat at the dressing table. He opened all the drawers and found several boxes and trays of jewelry. He began to go through them rapidly, listening warily for the sound of the door opening.

Lady Monkford did not have good taste. She was a pretty woman who had struck Harry as rather ineffectual, and she—or her husband—chose showy, rather cheap jewelry. Her pearls were ill-matched, her brooches big and ugly, her earrings clumsy and her bracelets flashy. He was disappointed.

He was hesitating over an almost attractive pendant when he heard the bedroom door open.

He froze, stomach in a knot, thinking fast.

The only door out of the dressing room led to the bedroom.

There was a small window, but it was firmly closed and he probably could not open it quickly or silently enough. He wondered if he had time to hide in the wardrobe.

From where he stood, he could not quite see the bedroom door. He heard it close again; then there were a feminine cough and light footsteps on the carpet. He leaned toward the mirror and found he could see into the bedroom. Lady Monkford had come in, and she was heading for the dressing room. There was not even time to close the drawers.

His breath came fast. He was taut with fear, but he had been in spots like this before. He paused for one more moment, forcing himself to breathe evenly, calming his mind. Then he moved.

He stood up, stepped quickly through the door into the bedroom, and said: “I say!”

Lady Monkford was brought up short in the middle of the room. She put her hand to her mouth and let out a tiny scream.

A flowered curtain flapped in the breeze from the open window, and Harry was inspired.

“I say,” he repeated, deliberately sounding a bit stupefied. “I’ve just seen someone jump out of your window.”

She found her voice. “What on earth do you mean?” she said. “And what are you doing in my bedroom?”

Acting the part, Harry strode to the window and looked out. “Gone already!” he said.

“Please explain yourself!”

Harry took a deep breath, as if marshaling his thoughts. Lady Monkford was about forty, a fluttery woman in a green silk dress. If he kept his nerve, he could deal with her. He smiled winningly, assumed the persona of a hearty, rugby-playing, overgrown schoolboy—a type that must be familiar to her—and began to pull the wool over her eyes.

“It’s the oddest thing I ever saw,” he said. “I was in the corridor when a strange-looking cove peeped out of this room. He caught my eye and ducked back in again. I knew it was your bedroom, because I had looked in here myself when I was hunting for the bathroom. I wondered what the chap was up to—he didn’t look like one of your servants and he certainly wasn’t a guest. So I came along to ask him. When I opened the door he jumped out of the window.” Then, to account for the still-open drawers of the dressing table, he added: “I’ve just looked into your dressing room, and I’m afraid there’s no doubt he was after your jewelry.”

That was brilliant, he said admiringly to himself. I should be on the bleedin’ wireless.

She put her hand to her forehead. “Oh, what a dreadful thing,” she said weakly.

“You’d better sit down,” Harry said solicitously. He helped her to a small pink chair.

“To think!” she said. “If you hadn’t chased him off, he would have been here when I walked in! I’m afraid I shall faint.” She grasped Harry’s hand and held it tightly. “I’m so grateful to you.”

Harry smothered a grin. He had got away with it again.

He thought ahead for a moment. He did not want her to make too much fuss. Ideally he would like her to keep the whole thing to herself. “Look, don’t tell Rebecca what’s happened, will you?” he said as a first step. “She’s got a nervous disposition and something like this could lay her low for weeks.”

“Me, too,” said Lady Monkford. “Weeks!” She was too upset to reflect that the muscular, hearty Rebecca was hardly the type to have a nervous disposition.

“You’ll probably have to call the police, and so on, but it will spoil the party,” he went on.

“Oh, dear—that would be too dreadful. Do
we have
to call them?”

“Well ...” Harry concealed his satisfaction. “It rather depends on what the blighter stole. Why don’t you have a quick look?”

“Oh, goodness, yes, I’d better.”

Harry squeezed her hand for encouragement, then helped her up. They went into the dressing room. She gasped when she saw all the drawers open. Harry handed her to her chair. She sat down and started looking through her jewelry. After a moment she said: “I don’t think he can have taken much.”

“Perhaps I surprised him before he got started,” Harry said.

She continued sorting through the necklaces, bracelets and brooches. “I think you must have,” she said. “How wonderful you are.”

“If you haven’t lost anything, you don’t really have to tell anyone.”

“Except Sir Simon, of course,” she said.

“Of course,” Harry said, although he had hoped otherwise. “You could tell him after the party’s over. That way at least you won’t spoil his evening.”

“What a good idea,” she said gratefully.

This was very satisfactory. Harry was immensely relieved. He decided to quit while he was so far ahead. “I’d better go down,” he said. “I’ll leave you to catch your breath.” He bent swiftly and kissed her cheek. She was taken by surprise, and she blushed. He whispered in her ear: “I think you’re terribly brave.” With that, he went out.